


The Putrid Smell of Death (404.M41)

by Sister of Silence (Orcbait)



Series: Aegis of Atonement [5]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Drama, F/M, Intrigue, Romantic Tension, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orcbait/pseuds/Sister%20of%20Silence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One autumn morning doctor Crezia Berschilde comes to work only to run into someone she had thought dead. The past comes rushing back to interfere with her present and before she quite realises what is happening, reality and nightmare are congealing into one before her very eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Putrid Smell of Death (404.M41)

Life had been difficult after what had happened. My pict had been visible across Gundrun on pict-casters from Garlon to Artania: ‘Wanted!’ they had exclaimed in bold, unforgiving Imperial calligraphy, ‘For aiding a known criminal and Imperial traitor _who is wanted by the Inquisition_!’

It had made no sense. I had been aiding the Inquisition, had I not?

I moved to New Gevae, dyed my hair auburn and fashioned it into a shorter cut; I even started dressing differently. As time passed, the Arbites and the Imperium as a whole lost their interest in finding me. Perhaps, they had assumed that I was dead too. News of his death had been a blow I had not been ready to bear yet. A body had not been found, although Gideon had said that was not at all unusual in their line of work. I wish I could have said his words came as a surprise, but I had always known it had only ever been a matter of time before Gregor's work became the death of him.

As the years slipped by I picked up the pieces of my life and fashioned myself a new one. Fortunately, Medicae anatomica are always in demand and it was therefore not too difficult to find work. The Universitariate of New Gevae is a grand institute with an excellent Medicae staff and top notch equipment. I had been pleased, and relieved, when they had accepted my application.

I am Chief Medicae anatomica now, with my own diagnostic and surgery team. My recent treatise on neuro-absorption of augmetics through subdermal implantation has been published in Augmentology, the most respectable datazine in my discipline. It was received well and I currently have the follow-up text elaborating on its practical applications under peer review with them.

The future looked promising and I had almost forgotten about the past until, nearly two-and-a-half decades after Gideon had visited me, our belief was proven wrong. And no, the irony of the timing was not lost on me.

It had happened one early, crisp morning, somewhere in the fall of 404.M41. I remember, because I had slept badly the previous evening. I had woken in the middle of the night, disquieted, but for no apparent reason. When sleep would not come to me again, I had left home early for a morning shift. At the time of their arrival I had been in the Grande Atrium of the Universitariate to pick up my communiques before I would start my rounds. Novice Angelique had been on duty, her fashion datazine quickly disappearing under the counter when she noticed our early visitors. I observed them from the corner of my eyes, as I sorted through my communique transcripts and suppressed a shiver against the cold wind that entered with them.

They were a man and a woman, and they purposefully strode across the wide, slate-paved atrium towards the glass reception desk and Novice Angelique. They wore formal dress in dark shades and overcoats against the budding autumn weather. They were clearly well-to-do, though they did not flaunt it. Their features were obscured by the pale morning light that flooded around them through the glass domes of the atrium.

The woman was slight of stature and had long, blonde hair which hung smoothly to well past her shoulders. Her elegant but reserved, ankle-length gown complimented her figure which was curvaceous even under the full-length woollen redingote she wore against the cold; her shoulders straight and her bearing dignified. From where I stood, I could not well see him, save for a sliver of his lined, hawkish profile and neatly trimmed goatee as they turned towards the reception desk. His short hair was a steely grey beneath his flat cap and he was roughly a hand taller than her even though she wore formidable heels. The dark overcoat he wore accented his broad shoulders and proud bearing despite his evident age. He had difficulties walking and leaned heavily on the cane clutched in his right hand. She held on to the crook of his left arm, her gentle hold just above his elbow the only proof that she supported him lightly. There were traces of concern on her face.

However, it is the sound of their footsteps upon the slate tiles that I remember most vividly of that fateful morning. The slow, heavy fall of his boots and the light, quick clicks of her heels which echoed through the silence of the atrium on that early autumn morning like the ticks of asynchronous clocks, like the past come running to catch up with the present.

“Good morning Sir, Madame,” Novice Angelique greeted them in her high, nasal voice. “How may I aid you?”

“We’d like an immediate appointment with doctor, eh?” the woman started and then glanced sideways at her companion. Her voice was clear and authoritative, the vocals of a woman who was used to have things her way. It was also… inflected, the slightest hints of an accent I could not quite place. I was certain I had not heard it’s like before.

“Berschilde,” he complied, and I froze. I knew _that_ voice.

“Requesting?” Novice Angelique asked, blissfully ignorant.

“Vivènne D'Ancona and Nathaniel Hawthorne,” he replied, his tone monotonous and his speech as laborious as his walking had been. “Though quite obviously, the appointment is for me.” Although there was no mirth in his voice, the woman chuckled lightly.

Vivènne… D'Ancona… _Doctor Historicus archaeologos_ Vivènne Florance D’Ancona…

…Explorator of the Nivasca Ruins and discoverer and transgraphulator of the Scrolls of Niva. Recently she’d become a staunch supporter and theorist on the multiple Out-of-Terra events scheme which attempted to explain how humanity had come to be seeded among the stars. The treatise ‘Diasporas Out of Ancient Terra’, which she had published not a year ago, had instantly become a discipline leading manuscript and was already a standard Scholam work. As someone who only pursued the study of humanity’s origins as a scholarly past-time, I was momentarily surprised, stunned and awed to suddenly and unwittingly find myself in the presence of such a famous and enlightened scholar.

“I will need to see your legi-card or similar identification, Sir,” Novice Angelique replied in her uncharming, expedite manner as she accessed the cogitator in front of her. He shifted and reached into his jacket, retrieving his wallet. There was a glint of polished silver and Novice Angelique went almost as pale as her neatly starched uniform. The moment I realised why, both of them looked up and straight at me, and I could no longer deny his identity: it was Gregor. Gregor Eisenhorn. _Inquisitor_ Gregor Eisenhorn. And at his arm universally acclaimed, stellar famous, discipline leading…

…something loathsome coiled itself in the pit of my stomach that had no business doing so. I stomped it back down with the intent to nip it in the bud. She was accompanying him to a Universitariate, that did not mean anything – and if it did, it was none of my business: that ship had sailed long ago.

I picked up the transcripts of my communiques and walked over to the reception desk. “G-,” I started, smiling, but the way his eyes narrowed made me swallow his name and the casual greeting I had intended. I glanced briefly at doctor D’Ancona before returning my gaze to Gregor. Did she not know?

“Good morning, Mr Hawthorne,” I said instead and extended my hand. Beloved God-Emperor, he had aged significantly since last I’d seen him. If someone told me a full century had passed rather than a quarter since last we had met, I would have believed it. “I am doctor Berschilde, I happened to overhear your request and I am certain something can be arranged.”

“Good,” he replied curtly and shook my hand, his grip still strong and the warm, coarse feel of it stirring the maimed remnants of emotions I had given up for burial decades ago.

“Vivènne D’Ancona, pleased to meet you,” doctor D’Ancona said in turn, her genial smile revealing a dazzling perfection of white teeth. She did not take her hand from the crook of Gregor’s arm to shake mine. Instead, she lightly grasped his hand with her free one to keep him steady as he shifted his posture. Uncharacteristically, he did not protest. “Nathaniel assured me you were the very best.”

It was then that I saw it; the gracile, gold wrought Aquila with eyes made of small rubies curving around her ring finger. It cradled what looked like a mallet, or perhaps it was a stylised ‘I’. Gregor wore something similar, though it was of a broader, more robust execution.

…and the thing in the pit of my stomach twisted victoriously and kicked up bile that left a sour tang in the corners of my mouth. I smiled as best I could. “The pleasure is all mine,” I replied, making a courtesy of flattering back. “I sincerely admire your paradigm breaking research.” It sounded hollow, even to my own ears. She smiled though, seemingly pleased. As ever, Gregor gave away nothing but studied silence and I felt a little uneasy under his quiet gaze. “Thank you, Novice Angelique,” I said then, in an attempt to pass the uncomfortable moment. “I will arrange the appointment myself.”

“As you wish, doctor Berschilde,” Novice Angelique replied.

“Follow me please, Mr Hawthorne, Doctor D'Ancona,” I continued, forcing my voice to unperturbed professionalism as I turned around and started towards the lifter on the far side of the Grande Atrium. I could hear Gregor’s footsteps and the fleet click of her heels behind me, like the ticks of asynchronous clocks, like the past come running to catch up with the present.

* * *

“Please, take a seat,” I said as we walked into my office up on the seventh floor, and gestured at the comfortable chairs in front of my desk. Despite the obvious trouble it cost him, Gregor insisted on holding her chair out for her. She sat down with the practised grace of someone that was used to being waited upon. Gregor seated himself with considerably less polish.

“So, Mr Hawthorne, how can I be of service?” I asked on a neutral, professional tone as I sat down behind my desk and folded my hands in front of me. A smile played around doctor D’Ancona’s lips as she observed me, though I did not understand what was so amusing. Gregor’s expression remained in its permanent scowl.

“I would like my current augmetics to be replaced with the subdermal type you have pioneered, doctor Berschilde,” Gregor said as if ordering take-out food, rather than complex and potentially lethal techno-surgery. I recalled well how he had insisted on his current ones, in his rush to pursue his… _traitor,_ all those years ago. We had bolted the augmetics to his bones and lodged their neuro-wiring directly into his spine and brainstem. It was short of a miracle that hadn’t left him a quadriplegic to begin with and now he wanted them removed? Two decades worth of rejuvenat bone-growth alone would make this a tricky procedure at best, never mind cutting open his spine.

“That will be… difficult,” I replied, reserved. “These procedures are still in their infancy and they are difficult to implement even under the best of circumstances.”

“You are saying it is impossible?” Doctor D’Ancona asked, her tone surprised and with a note of displeasure that suggested few denied her anything. She glanced at Gregor and caught his gaze and although she did not say anything, he nodded.

“No, I am saying it is dangerous,” I returned, trying not to sound defensive. “Rejuvenat has biologically preserved him well beyond our natural age limits and though it retards aging it does not stem natural cell rejuvenation entirely: bone and skin layers are still created which will greatly increase the difficulty of removing his current augmetics. The chance of biochemical rejection of the new augmetics is great due to their construction of novel material and largely subdermal placement and the damage to his already strained nervous system may be severe. It is not a matter of simply cutting into his knees; neurosurgery to his spine and brainstem will be necessary and heavy medication both during the procedure and during rehabilitation to combat rejection and worse.” Nothing in their expressions or body language gave away that they understood the gravity of what they asked me to do. “What I am trying to say,” I continued as I took a deep breath. “You may die, G—Mr Hawthorn. In fact, it is very _likely_ that you will die.”

Gregor slowly rose from his seat then and gently pressed doctor D'Ancona's arm from his. “Excuse me, dear,” he said, effectively stopping her from rising too. “Doctor Berschilde and I must discuss these risks she speaks of in private.” It was obvious from her expression that she did not in the least agree with this course of action, but it seemed she knew better than to protest. It was clear from his tone of voice that he’d made up his mind and would brook no disagreement, from either of us.

“Certainly, Mr Hawthorne,” I complied, giving her a weak smile before returning my attention to Gregor. “This way, please,” I continued as I moved to assist him, but he waved me off. I had not anticipated the way that stung. Turning on my heels, I showed him to the examination room adjacent to my office.

“This is madness, Gregor!” I hissed as soon as we had entered it and were reasonably out of earshot.

“What are the risks?” he replied far too calmly.

“Death,” I returned bluntly. “And if not death, then you are very likely to end up a quadriplegic. Gregor, this is not a good idea.”

“And if it succeeds?” he inquired unperturbed.

“Then you will walk again – _not_ without difficulty or pain,” I stressed, though I feared he had already made up his mind. “But you will walk and substantially better than you do now.”

He was silent for a moment, frowning as if still listening to me even though I had stopped talking. He nodded, apparently to himself. “I want you to do it.”

“The likelihood that this will be your death is infinitely greater than–,” I started to rebuke, but he interrupted me.

“I want you to do it,” he repeated sternly.

“Why now?” I asked in an attempt to… what, stall him? If even death would not dissuade him, then what in the God-Emperor’s holy name would? “Why now, why after all these years?”

“I need them,” he answered simply. For what? What had changed in his life that required them now? Surely not something related to his work. If they had impeded his work he would have gotten rid of them far sooner. Then what? My gaze travelled past him, through the archway and to doctor D’Ancona, who was disinterestedly perusing a dataslate.

As my gaze wandered back to Gregor, I inadvertently recalled our time together and something old and half-forgotten ached in its death throes at the memories and the knowledge that this time was clearly irrevocably over. I glanced past him again. Doctor De’Ancona was impatiently tapping her foot. She suddenly looked up and our gazes crossed, and for a moment I was irretrievably lost in her eyes. They were soft and framed by long lashes, their colour the shimmering blue of a quiet ocean; and they dragged me into their unknowable depths like a Siren does a sailor.

“I see,” I replied when finally her gaze left me, trying to remember where our conversation had broken off. I looked at Gregor. “Do you love her?” The thought tumbled from my mouth before I could stop it.

Gregor’s scowl deepened markedly. “It’s none of your concern,” he replied tersely.

“I’m not blind, Gregor. Your eyes follow her everywhere,” I returned. “Gracious Saints, you let her assist you – _you!_ You let _no one_ assist you, in any way. Ever.”

“When will you have time for the procedure, doctor?” he retorted curtly.

“I… what? Damn it, Gregor!” I called before I could control myself. “You are likely to _die!_ Don’t throw your life – your life _together_ – away like that!”

“It is my life,” he replied sternly, his face unreadable.

“You will not be around to mourn losing it,” I bit back, anger and pain I had thought worn away by age coiling up inside me; he had made up his mind and the helpless anger I felt at his stubbornness only fuelled it. I closed my eyes for a moment, forcing myself to calm down. It was difficult. “At least talk with her about it, before you decide what to do?” I sighed, knowing better.

“She agrees with me.”

“Agrees? You don’t know that! How do you know that?” I asked, surprised and confused by his reply. How could he know that? I had been with them all this time, they hadn’t spoken… It was only then that the likely answer occurred to me, and it explained everything. “Vivènne is not her real name, is it?” I asked, fearing the answer I thought to know.

“No,” he replied calmly. “It is not.”

“She is an Inquisitor, isn’t she? And psykanically gifted, like you?”

“You don’t know her,” he said sharply, and I thought it sounded defensive. I smiled sadly; his reaction answering my initial question after all. In a fashion, I had always known that if he was ever going to achieve a semblance of happiness, it could only be with another inquisitor: someone who understood his world, his responsibilities and, especially, his choices… I had always denied this notion for I had loved him and I had wanted him to love me back. And I think he did, though I do not believe it made him happy, not in the way I wanted it to.

And it was then, on that crisp autumn morning, in my office, in front of him, that I felt the crossroads of time - of lives lived asynchronous to the steady tick of my reality. His world was not mine, his eyes told me so. And it filled me with fear; fear for him and fear, even, for her. I remembered all too well the ‘interview’ he had conducted with his unwilling ‘guest’ when he had visited me all those years ago. What… if she was _just like him_? Who would stop them if they went too far?

“Is she?” I asked again. He remained silent and that was answer enough. “If we go through with this procedure… In the event that you will not be able to give informed consent,” I started, searching for the right words. “Will you remit power of attorney of medicare?” If he remitted it to me as attending Chief Medicae, I would be able to ascertain necessary care was taken to ensure his health and well-being. Should it turn for the worse, I would be able to make sure that all provisions would be followed and his passing would be... I couldn’t even think it.

“I will remit it to Vivènne.”

Of course he would, and my heart sank further yet. “She will need to sign it under her real name.”

“Her full name is Vivènne Florance D’Ancona and mine is Nathaniel Hawthorne,” he replied without batting an eye.

“You cannot sign your Living Will under those names, that’s forgery Gregor!” I retorted, taken aback by his suggestion.

“We have all the necessary papers, doctor Berschilde,” he rebuked, suddenly stern. “They will stand up to the most stringent scrutiny. It is only you who insists on calling me ‘Gregor’”.

“That’s…” I started, but stopped. His expression had darkened, although it had not changed, exactly, and my earlier sense of unease returned as he gazed at me intently, his lips a thin line. And I suddenly had no doubt that there would be no trace of their true identities to be found. “Why are you here?” I asked, suddenly wary.

“For my knees,” he replied, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Why are you _really_ here?”

“For my knees.”

“Gr-,”

 _“Nathaniel,”_ he interrupted me.

I pursed my lips. “ _Mr Hawthorne_ , why are you here?”

“For my knees,” he repeated a third time, but then added: “you’d be better off forgetting you ever met any Inquisitors, least of all one called Gregor Eisenhorn.” He then turned and strode back into my office, the heavy thud of his boots like the slowing of time and space to align with my reality, which very much included Inquisitors and especially one called Gregor Eisenhorn. I stared at his retreating back, his words echoing in my mind and grinding my reared sentiments into an unrecognisable smear as he sat back down beside her. I could never forget him.

“Do say we did not come for naught,” doctor D’Ancona commented boredly when I returned to my desk.

“We have not,” Gregor answered, his voice giving no clue as whether he was pleased with that outcome or not. I supposed he was, for it was what he had insisted upon after all.

“I will attempt to arrange it as soon as possible,” I commented, putting on a mask of practised professionalism as I opened my logi-planner. “Although it may not be until later today.” I looked up at them then and suggested: “Why don’t you visit our restaurant? It is peaceful and serves excellent wares; you can take the lifter from this floor directly to the roof.”

“That sounds wonderful,” doctor D’Ancona said and she looked expectantly at Gregor as she held her slender, gloved hand out to him. “Shall we?”

“If you so please, my dear,” he replied atypically docile and reached a hand out in turn, which she took gracefully as she rose. She slipped her arm neatly through his and he briefly put his free hand to hers before reaching for his cane. It was as if the stern, work-oriented man I knew Gregor to be simply ceased to exist as soon as he reached her side, changing into the quiet, quaintly old-fashioned man I had rarely met but had always hoped to see. I watched them leave with a sinking feeling in my stomach. They looked so perfect. But they were Inquisitors and the feeling that they had come here for other reasons than Gregor’s knees would not leave me.

* * *

Doctor Berschilde had been right: the small restaurant on the rooftop of the Universitariate was lovely. It was located in a peaceful garden with an idyllic, sun-bathed terrace and had a magnificent view of New Gevae and its surrounding landscape. Gregor had gone inside to order warm breakfast and I had installed myself in a quiet corner of the terrace, enjoying the last warm rays before winter on this pale autumn morning. There were few other people and most of them were Universitariate personel.

“It is Universitariate procedure that all beautiful women should be accompanied at all times, in case they fall ill.”

I opened my eyes and glanced sideways and up in the direction the voice had come from. A man stood beside me, lean of figure and of an indeterminable rejuvenat wrought age: somewhere between fifty and trice that. His hair was short, peaking and dark grey, his long face lined and sporting stubble that tinged his jaw blue. His light blue eyes regarded me with amusement, self-confidence, and more than a little arrogance. And although he was dressed informally in a plain shirt and jacket, the hearolascope around his neck suggested he was a Medicae. It was only then that I noticed he stood leaned upon a cane, favouring his right leg. I smiled and replied with good humour: “And I suppose, we should go accompanied by attentive Medicae such as yourself?” I shifted and crossed my legs, my gaze never leaving his.

He feigned a hurt expression. “It’s not nice to be mean to cripples.”

I smiled genuinely at that, amused by his quirky way of trying to make me offer him a seat. “I am very nice to the cripples I _know,”_ I returned, slightly stressing the word ‘know’.

He looked at me for a long moment, in which he seemed to gauge my reaction, so I simply kept smiling. “Do you always keep them standing?”

“I truly wish I could offer you the seat, good doctor,” I replied without missing a beat, smiling still. “But I fear that it is already spoken for.”

He seemed surprised at that, and I wondered if I ought to take that as an insult. I nodded my head slightly sideways, in the direction of the restaurant, from which I had just glanced Gregor reappearing out of the corner of my eyes. He followed my gaze, and the slight souring of his expression was both amusing and flattering.

“I see our tireless staff has already provided you with a cranky, cane-wielding old man,” he commented as he inclined his head briefly. “Do excuse me.” And with that, he limped away. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes once again.

A moment passed, and then I felt a light brush at the back of my mind.

+Who was that?+

I couldn’t help but smile again. +I have no idea, some Medicae with time to waste.+ I opened my eyes as Gregor approached our table and sat down opposite me in the only other chair. Though he did not say so, I could tell he was glad for it.

Within several minutes a neatly dressed waiter brought our warm breakfast. We had travelled most of the previous two days and nights to come here as quickly as possible, and I could tell from the way he inhaled his breakfast that Gregor had been as hungry as I. I ate more slowly though as I did not want to suffer an upset stomach for the remainder of the day. Doctor Berschilde had been right about the food too. Although simple fare, the beans, tubermash and rothé sausages with gravy were delicious.

“She seemed nice, doctor Berschilde,” I commented after we had finished eating and were savouring a mug of freshly brewn recaf of a blend I had not tasted before.

“It was a long time ago,” Gregor replied noncommittally, clamming up as he had done when I had inquired about their past on our way here.

I toyed with the signet ring around my little finger, which was a symbol of my status as an Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus as much as my rosette was. I glanced at Gregor from the corner of my eyes. “I think she mistook the similarity of our seals to mean they were marital bands,” I observed neutrally, trying not to smile.

“You did that on purpose,” he returned, not a hint of amusement to be found in his voice or mood.

“You were the one who choose to use the identity of my cover’s non-existing husband,” I replied as I picked up my mug and looked at him from over its edge as I took a sip of recaf.

He scowled terribly, his conciousness suddenly pressing oppressively against me. “Leave her out of your games,” he replied curtly. It felt like a reprimand. “She does not deserve your ire.”

I pursed my lips as I put my mug back down. Perhaps not. Unless she went and left him paralysed from the neck down, for then my ‘ire’ would be the least of her worries.

+I heard that+

+It was a private thought+

+Leave it+ He threw me a look that made me scowl in turn.

+She still has feelings for you+ I returned, and admittedly not without petulance.

+I have none for her+

I eyed him speculatively and reached out actively, rather than passively perceiving his mood. He did not draw up his mental defences. I looked around, here and there, but there did not seem to be anything remotely like the suffocatingly damp mental architecture the good doctor had forced me to endure, and nor was there the soothing warmth of fire I associated with his affection anywhere near any notion of her.

+Perhaps… She’s– +

+Leave it!+

+Fine! Be that way!+ I crossed my arms and looked in a different direction, drawing up my mental shields. We concluded our breakfast in moody silence, each to our own now well-guarded thoughts.

* * *

Later that afternoon found us playing regicide in the indoor sun-garden of the Universitariate, a large armour-glass building full of tropical plants and song birds. It was pleasantly warm under the well masked heat lamps. Gregor was far better than I at regicide, and even with half the pieces and restricted moves he met me at every turn.

“Impossible,” I mused in dismay as he had my deacon pinned and my king in a choke hold for the third time in a row. “I don’t understand.”

“Your knight stood blocked by my soldier, and when I moved my own knight beside him you could only move sideward,” he explained patiently, as if to a particularly slow Scholam ungrad. “That left your archduke wide open to my councillor, and thus your king to my inquisitor.” I took no offense, I was particularly slow at this, and it bothered the Warp out of me.

“I know what happened,” I amended as I picked up my beaker of lemon coleen and got up, sitting down at his side. “I just don’t understand how you keep winning.” I glanced at him as I took a sip. “I think you are cheating,” I added, hiding my smile behind my glass.

“You are calling me a cheat?” he inquired, though his voice was neutral, a hint of mirth pervaded his consciousness.

“Yes, Gregor Eisenhorn,” I replied decidedly. “You are a dirty cheat; nobody has a winning streak like that with their hands and feet tied.”

“Maybe,” he returned, and leaned his head slightly in my direction as if confiding something to me. “The competition wasn’t much of a challenge.”

“Not much of a challenge?” I feigned a scandalised tone. “I can win, I just need to get into it – I didn’t know we were keeping scores!”

The muscles in his jaw twitched weakly, though I could feel his smile psychically as he glanced at me from the corner of his eyes, clearly amused. “I have the notes and files of the Kaldonni case still,” he remarked. “If I win again, you’ll write the report.”

“Fine!” I agreed immediately, eager for a rematch. He couldn’t possibly keep this up.

* * *

“The day is wearing on,” I remarked as I sat back and looked up at the slowly mauve turning sky through the armourglass roof of the health garden. I had lost the regicide match again, scoring an impossible 13 to 0 for Gregor, and leaving me with a draconic archival case to the boot. I didn’t overly mind. I liked watching him play and enjoy himself. Spending a few days labouring through his scrawled handwriting sounded like a bargain price for it.

+If she cannot arrange the procedure for today+ I thought as I carefully reached for his consciousness. +Then what do we do? We should not stay too long+

+She will arrange it for today + he replied. He seemed certain of it. +If not, we will find another way to retrieve it+

Another way… We had searched everywhere in her apartment the previous night, but it had not been there. Psychic auguring had revealed nothing. I doubted she had noticed we were even there. Gregor had said she would not have done away with it. How difficult could it be to find it? But it had not been there. The only other option was that she kept it here, in her office. Yet she used that all day for consults; we had accessed her schedule. The only way was to wait for an opportunity, or to create one by drawing her away.

The augmetics were cumbersome and caused Gregor extensive chronic pains. He had never told me this, but observing his behaviour and the few micro-expressions left to him was hardly fuelcore science. Using this would kill two birds with one stone: it would rid Gregor of the dreadful contraptions and it would draw the good doctor away from her office long enough for me to investigate. It would also be the one distraction she would not be suspicious of.

“I like it when you make it sound as if you have everything under control,” I said as I leaned sideways, against his chest.

“I do have everything under control,” he replied as he shifted and laid his arm along the back of the bench we were seated upon.

I smiled and pressed a kiss to his lips. “You do?”

“I do.” He returned it, moving his hand to my shoulder. And it was then, as we shared a brief kiss, that from across Gregor’s shoulder, I saw doctor Berschilde walk towards us and hesitate. I smiled a little despite myself and reached a hand up to cup the side of his head.

+Don’t+

I resisted the urge to pull a face as he broke the kiss. Doctor Berschilde had continued to walk towards us after all, and she was holding a folder.

“Doctor Berschilde,” I called out as if only just seeing her. “Nathaniel, its doctor Berschilde!” I gave her an expectant look as Gregor turned to glance at her too. He did not move his hand away from my shoulder, as I had suspected he would. I tried not to bask in the uncharacteristic public show of affection.

“Good afternoon, doctor D’Ancona, Mr Hawthorne,” she returned, her voice and posture awkward.

“When can you perform the procedure?” Gregor asked without batting an eye.

To her credit, doctor Berschilde recovered quickly and answered: “within the hour.”

“That is wonderful news!” I replied with far more enthusiasm than I strictly felt. “Did you hear?”

“Yes, dear,” he replied dutifully, and gave my shoulder a soft squeeze.

“You will need to sign these forms,” doctor Berschilde said, and handed him the folder. I reached to accept them from her instead; Warpbend on making certain there was no need for him to remove his hand. I knew I was enjoying this far more than I should, but I couldn’t quite help myself. There was something about her, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, and that distinctly reminded me of myself. And it was this, more than anything, which urged me to stretch Gregor’s subtle show of affection for as long as was humanly possible. Lest she forget he had not arrived here alone.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such it is very dear to me. I would love to hear what you thought of it. And please, share this story freely but credit me and link back to me. Thank you!


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